Don’t let anybody make Mommy cry anymore.” I almost laughed.

Despite our success, the underworld rarely lets go of its past without one final, desperate twitch.

In late September, Victor Falcone—the ruthless boss of the Chicago syndicate that had secretly backed Vincent's attempted coup—decided to make a desperate move. With Vincent in prison and their illegal shipping pipelines permanently shut down, Falcone’s organization was facing financial ruin.

Falcone believed that if he could eliminate me, the Moretti empire would crumble into chaos, allowing him to step in and seize our shipping terminals by force.

It happened on an autumn evening as I was returning from a late-night negotiation in downtown Detroit.

My three-car convoy was turning onto the long, wooded access road leading to the Moretti estate when a heavy construction truck suddenly pulled out from a side road, slamming sideways into my lead escort vehicle.

BOOM!

Metal twisted and glass shattered as the lead SUV rolled twice into the ditch.

From the surrounding treeline, six masked gunmen clad in black tactical gear burst forth, opening fire on my armored sedan with automatic weapons. Sparks flew off the reinforced glass as bullets hammered against the windshield.

"Boss! Stay down!" Marco shouted from the front passenger seat, pulling a high-powered submachine gun from beneath the dash.

I didn't stay down.

I reached beneath my seat, pulling out a heavy, tactical shotgun. The cold rage that had consumed me six months ago flared back to life—not out of fear for my own life, but out of a ferocious realization that these men were trying to bring violence back to the home where Elena and Mia slept.

"Mateo! Flank right through the woods!" I ordered into the tactical radio as our driver jammed the sedan into reverse, spinning the heavy vehicle 180 degrees to create a defensive barrier.

I kicked the rear door open, stepping out into the cool rain, the thunderous roar of my shotgun echoing through the dark forest as I returned fire.

For ten violent, chaotic minutes, the access road turned into a war zone. But Falcone had made a catastrophic error. He thought he was ambushing a complacent businessman.

He didn't realize he was attacking a father figure protecting his pack.

My loyalists, trained rigorously under Marco’s new security protocols, executed a perfect pincer movement, completely overwhelming Falcone’s mercenaries. Within fifteen minutes, five of the attackers were neutralized, and the team leader was pinned to the muddy ground under Marco’s heavy boot.

I walked over to the captured team leader, my shotgun resting over my shoulder, rain dripping from the brim of my dark coat.

I pulled off his ski mask, revealing a scarred, middle-aged enforcer I recognized instantly as Falcone’s chief lieutenant.

"Tell Victor Falcone," I said, my voice dropping into that terrifying, icy tone that had ruled the Midwest for twenty years, "that if a single one of his men ever steps foot within fifty miles of my family again, I won't just destroy his business. I will personally erase his name from the earth."

I looked up at Mateo. "Put him in a car and drop him on Falcone’s front lawn in Chicago with that message."

"Understood, boss," Mateo replied grimly.